


It’s Gotta Be a Damn Ghost

by KateKintail



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, OhSam Triple Play 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:50:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9491615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateKintail/pseuds/KateKintail
Summary: When you’ve been raised as a hunter, there are some things you notice that others around you dismiss too easily.





	

When you’ve been raised as a hunter, there are some things you notice that others around you dismiss too easily. There’s the drop in temperature, for starters. People reach for their jackets or sweaters on the bar stools next to them and think maybe they just haven’t had enough to drink tonight to stay warm. Then there’s the flicker of lights, for another. People assume the power company just had some sort of hiccup like a transformer blew somewhere else in town and the electricity flow elsewhere was disrupted for a second. Or maybe something got struck by a bolt of lightning out there in the rainstorm, even though no one heard a clap of thunder and the storm’s letting up anyway. Or maybe it’s some stupid college student’s first night on the job and he backed up into the light switches when he was reaching for the mop and bucket to help clean up the inevitable mess one finds in a bar where patrons drink way too much. 

Or maybe it’s a damn ghost. 

It’s gotta be a damn ghost.

Only, this time, it isn’t. The guy causing trouble at the bar isn’t possessed by a particularly angry, vengeful spirit. He's just a really angry drunk. Only Sam Winchester, raised at John Winchester's knee, bred to be a hunter, doesn’t know that at the time. At the time, he thinks if he can get to the iron horseshoe above the bar and that huge container of salt they use for margarita glasses and the knife in the back they use to slice the lime wedges, he'll be able to save them all. He thinks he'll be able to take down that bruiser from the frat before anyone else gets hurt. He thinks he knows exactly what's going on. 

“What the hell were you thinking, Sam?” Brady takes the ziplock bag of ice that the guy behind the bar hands him, jostles it a second to get a better grip, then presses it gently to the back of Sam's head where a bruise at best and a concussion-causing bump at worst are now forming.

Sam sits, hunched over, pressing a bunch of napkins to his nose and another few to his cheek. The blood has just about stopped flowing; the hit wasn't that bad and the cut wasn't that deep, but he doesn't want Jess to get here and see the blood and freak out. Poor Jess. Getting woken up at two in the morning to find out your boyfriend was injured in a bar fight and needs a ride home isn't the best way to spend your almost-one year anniversary. “Poor Jessssss...” The word trails off. He feels dizzy. Hell, he feels tired. Is that because it's late or because of the bottle he took to the back of the head?

“Poor Jess? Poor Jess?!” Brady repeats with a breathy laugh. “Poor you! You're all cut up, Sam. Shit, is that a gash on your arm? Give it here.” He practically wrenches Sam's arm over in an attempt to get a look, shoving Sam's sleeve down. There's a lot of blood there, but little of it is Sam's and none is from a cut on his arm. Brady's grip tightens with what might be a concerned squeeze before loosening. 

Sam takes his arm back and swipes under his nose. The nosebleed has stopped, so he's got that going for him. He thinks he should be pretending this hurts more, though, if Brady's reaction is anything to judge by. People aren't supposed to get beat up by half a fraternity and not be in considerable pain. And, yeah, it hurts. But it's nothing compared to what Sam's been though. There was that skinwalker who cut into him, peeling layer after layer of skin off him just for fun while wearing his father's face and laughing at him the whole time. There was that demon who smashed a fist in his face before sending him tumbling down two and a half flights of stairs to land at the bottom with more bones broken than not. There was that cursed gun the witch had tricked him into holding that made him shoot himself in the leg four times before Dean figured out the counter-curse. Oh, and then there was that demon who'd killed his mom and set her on fire in his bedroom when he was only a baby. 

And his father and brother wondered how he could ever leave that world behind? 

Except he hasn't, has he? He feels a chill and sees lights flicker and his gaze falls on this one guy shoving another and his first thought isn't: that's what drunk college kids do on a Friday night. No, his first thought is ghost. And his second thought is to save the innocents in the bar. And his third thought is, apparently, that this could have been a lot worse. 

“Sam? Oh no, Sam?” Brady pulls back and makes room for Jess to swoop in. She takes over with the ice pack and kisses his good cheek and tells him to never do anything stupid like this again, that it's not worth it to be the hero. 

And all Sam can thing about is how that was always Dean's favorite part of a hunt. Oh, he liked the fight and the victory all right. He liked sending those evil bastards back where they came from, putting them in their place. But he loved the tail he got as a reward for being the hero. Sam can just picture them here now, Dean over by the pool table with a girl fawning over him, all impressed at his skills. And then John over by the bar, sweet-talking the bartender into giving him a double of his finest as a thank you for a job well done. He can picture the Impala sitting outside the bar, its back doors open, waiting for him to jump in before they hit the road again, off on another hunt. 

“What happened to you, Sam?” Jess strokes his good cheek with the back of her hand. 

He doesn't look at her as he replies, “Ghosts. No matter what I do, I can't shake those damn ghosts.” 

Jess looks at him for a second, pity in her eyes, not understanding. “Let’s get you home,” she says finally.

Even drunk and possibly concussed, he nods because he remembers that home now is an apartment with four walls, an extra-long bed, and a girl he’s crazy about.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not my characters! No money made!
> 
> Prompt:   
> 1\. A busy bar in Stanford  
> 2\. Jess/Brady/Becky/Zach/Luis (any or all!)  
> 3\. Beaten up (bruises, bloody nose, scrapes, or maybe even a broken bottle to the head/body!)


End file.
